White walls and ceiling, white tiled floor,
scarlet bookshelves filled with authors
I can never reach, Yeats, Homer, Hardy
and the rest. Yellow velvet sofa, bought
online from Wayfair. Blue jar, red peonies.
Broad window green with easy houseplants:
monstera, ficus and anthurium.
On my walls Matisse, Dufy, Pissarro.
Luxe, calme, volupte…
Nothing in my flat is difficult, nuanced
or allusive. All you see is all you mainly get.
Out there, sunlight on the Common,
pampered dogs, kids’ football, padel courts.
Pretty people pose in groups by leafy trees
like innocent Edwardians unaware
how quickly it can all be smashed to pieces.
At my eye’s edge, the future.
